Page 199 of The Clinch
Then he says, carefully, “That’s not his preferred roast.”
“What?”
He folds his arms loosely over his chest. “The Blue Mountain. That wasn’t for him.”
My laugh is short and humorless. “Of course it wasn’t.”
Neither of them says anything. Which is almost worse.
Nate keeps his voice matter-of-fact, maybe because anything softer would crack something open I’m working very hard to keep shut. “He tried it a few months ago. Said he wanted to see what the fuss was about.”
I look back at my mug.
The first swallow tasted different, and I thought the sting came from missing him.
But this is worse.
This is a bag of absurdly expensive coffee appearing over and over until I stopped noticing it had ever not been there.
I hate how much that hurts.
Eden clocks it and looks away. Nate, as usual, knows better than to fill the silence with some useless, well-meaning comment.
I take another sip because not doing something feels impossible.
It’s excellent coffee.
“That’s so annoying,” I mutter.
Eden’s mouth twitches. “The coffee?”
“Him.”
That slips out before I can stop it.
I close my eyes for a second. Great. Amazing. Love that for me too.
When I open them, neither of them is looking at me too directly, which is somehow kind and unbearable at the same time.
Because the pattern is impossible to miss now. Not the grand gestures. The small ones.
The kitchen. The mornings. The details I was too scared or too stubborn to call what they were.
Then, when it mattered most, he ended the threat and stayed gone.
No call. No appearance at my door. No message through Nate. No quiet attempt to collect gratitude or access or emotional payment.
Just silence.
Space.
Now this. Coffee I thought was his, when really it was something he kept because I loved it.
I set the mug down before I drop it.
Now Nate is reading me too closely for comfort. “Liz.”
“No,” I say, too fast. Because if either of them says one more gentle thing to me, I might actually come apart, and I absolutely refuse to do that.
